


Shadows Flickering (My Heart's Jittering)

by scarletjuliet



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Dork Lovers Server Challenge, Drunkenness, Fluff, Getting Together, I promise, Kissing, M/M, Set in the 70s, just fluff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-29 18:32:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18299738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjuliet/pseuds/scarletjuliet
Summary: There was a strand of John’s hair stuck to his bottom lip and Roger felt an intense and visceral urge to pull it away. Maybe push it and the rest of the dark locks that tumbled over his shoulders behind John’s ear. John began to speak.“I… I broke something.”John has broken a vase and Roger wants to kiss him very, very badly.





	Shadows Flickering (My Heart's Jittering)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dork Lovers server challenge, for which the prompt was "He'd done a poor job of hiding the damage". So many angst opportunities but believe it or not, it's the fluffiest thing I've ever written!

…

 

“Roger? Roger, I need your help.”

 

John’s voice was urgent, his cheeks flushed ruby in the dimmed lights. Pupils blown wide, lashes splayed across reddened skin, lips that Roger suspected probably tasted something like booze. If he took a moment to actually respond, he could always blame it on the noise. “Yeah?” he said, moving closer.

 

When John seemed to be taking a while to respond also, he added, “Why do you need help?”

 

John licked his (probably boozy) lips. “Come with me,” he finally said. As though Roger might have had trouble following the instruction, he reached out to grab hold of Roger’s left wrist as he turned around. If Roger’s heart began pounding, he could always blame it on the tequila. They stumbled through the crowd, John almost pulling Roger into a few teetering individuals as they crossed the carpet and into the hallway.

 

It was one of the more crowded house parties Roger had been to in his time. The house belonged to someone Freddie knew but that Roger didn’t (this was rare) and now the bastard was nowhere to be found (this was not). When Roger opened his mouth and began to let out a loud “What—” John hastily pressed a hand against Roger’s lips to silence him.

 

It occurred to Roger that John was probably reasonably drunk. He did as John had indicated and shut up. The warm palm was pleasant cupped against his chin. (Roger wasn’t sure what exactly he was going to blame that one on.)

 

He startled when he saw how close John had leaned in, and when the hand dropped from his face he couldn’t help but let his lips part, just slightly. There was a strand of John’s hair stuck to his bottom lip and Roger felt an intense and visceral urge to pull it away. Maybe push it and the rest of the dark locks that tumbled over his shoulders behind John’s ear. The train of thought trailed off as John began to speak.

 

“I… I broke something.”

 

Roger blinked. A spell had perhaps been broken, if only for a second. “You broke something?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“What did you break?” asked Roger, perplexed. They were stood in the dim hallway and the bass from the music was rattling Roger’s ribcage and John was stood about twenty centimetres away from him and, well. Roger hadn’t realised that John admitting that he’d broken something was the _exact_ direction he wanted the situation to go in—that is until John gestured towards the ground.

 

There was a pile of decorative cushions lying there, surrounding a small table set against the wall of the corridor. It took a moment for Roger to realise that no, this wasn’t a strange interior design decision, but that there was something underneath these oddly arranged objects. He kicked one out of the way and burst out laughing.

 

“So what did this use to be, Deaks?” Roger bent down, cackling, and picked up a large chunk of pottery something. Clearly, whatever it was, it had once sat on the table.

 

“A vase I think,” John shifted nervously, and then hiccoughed. Roger pretended he didn’t want to pinch John’s ruddy cheeks. Instead, he grinned and kicked more of the cushions out of the way.

 

“Oh _dear_ , John.”

 

“It was really ugly,” said John sadly.

 

Roger felt a strange, pleasant bubbling in his stomach. He threw his head back and laughed, and when he turned to look at John the other man was grinning just slightly too. His cheeks were maybe redder. (Roger’s cheeks might have been pinkish too.)

 

“What are you gonna do, then?”

 

“I don’t know,” John swayed slightly in place. In those chunky heels, Roger was concerned he may just topple over onto the wooden floorboards. He placed the broken piece back with the others, and stood.

 

“Well, Deaks, I just don’t think the cushions are your perfect solution.”

 

A smile began to creep across John’s face, and he shoved it into the crook of his own elbow, mumbling something in agreement. Roger finally gave into the urge to touch him, if only to laughingly attempt to pry the arm from John’s face. “Come on, John, there’s at least three cupboards in this hallway perfect for hiding broken vases in.”

 

John finally lifted his face from his elbow. “No broom,” he breathed. Roger might have imagined the flicker of his eyes down to Roger’s mouth.

 

“No broom?” Roger grinned, and John bit his lip to stop the giggling. His shoulders still shook with it, to Roger’s delight. “And yet seven bloody cushions?”

 

“I—”

 

“Look at this,” Roger bent down to grab one of the aforementioned cushions and demonstrated how one could shift the broken pieces along the wooden floor by sweeping it against them, “innovation, John. What the bloody hell are you using your, your engineering degree for?”

 

Maybe John was drunker than Roger had thought, because at that he finally collapsed into fits of laughter, bending over. His heels clacked on the floor. Roger almost moved forward to steady him but John righted himself, using one hand to push his hair out of his face before he stumbled forward. “Gonna—gonna check out the cupboard, options.”

 

Roger, still somewhat preoccupied with the combination of a drunken John and those shoes, followed him to the nearest door. Pulling it open did, in fact, put John a little off balance, and Roger grabbed his upper arms to steady him. The cupboard was not, in fact, a cupboard at all but a room—that much was clear from what little light filtered from the hallway. When John took a few steps into it and Roger reached to turn on the light, it was revealed to be a laundry room.

 

“Might actually be… something useful in here,” John mused, and then hiccoughed again. Roger, who was feeling a little fuzzy, leaned against the washing machine. Watched, feeling warm, as John teetered about the small room, checking the cupboards for a broom or a bag or something of any use whatsoever.

 

“Take off those bloody boots,” Roger finally said, partly with concern and partly with amusement. “Waiting for you to fall over is taking years off my life.” John rolled his eyes but complied, lowering himself until he was sitting on the floor.

 

Once they were both off and haphazardly placed nearby, John let his head hit the wall behind him and sighed, staring up at Roger. Roger felt his heartbeat quicken. (Could he blame his own flush on alcohol, too?) In an attempt to distract, he lowered himself also, grunting as he hit the ground and extending his legs so they slid on either side of John’s.

 

“No broom,” said John mournfully.

 

Roger laughed, and gently kicked John’s thigh with the toe of his sneaker. Felt his heart flutter when John grinned and retaliated. And when John looked downwards, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, his lashes fanned out so prettily, Roger felt himself overcome with a kind of effervescence, like warm champagne.

 

“Deaky—”

 

But he stopped when John lurched forward, slipping on the linoleum floor, until suddenly he was knelt between Roger’s legs. Roger scarcely had time to think anything of this new development before he felt the clumsy softness of John’s lips against his.

 

Something in his ribcage exploded—maybe his heart, kablooey, sticky sweet like strawberry jam. Immediately his hands began to despair at what part of John they were going to grasp first—his slender hips, those cherry cheeks, his broad shoulders. Eventually they settled on cupping his jaw, deepening the kiss, turning John’s head gently so that he could feel John’s nose pressing into his cheek. It was when John licked, just a little, at Roger’s upper lip that Roger pulled away. With one hand, he pushed John’s hair behind his left ear, enjoying the pulsing heat of his face as he thumbed from there to his jaw line.

 

“You’re so drunk,” he murmured, smiling just a little when John leaned in to press their lips together once more before pulling away.

 

“So are you.”

 

“You laughed at one of my jokes.”

 

John laughed again, and when his gaze trained down to Roger’s lips, Roger knew he wasn’t imagining it anymore. “I didn’t kiss you because I’m drunk.”

 

“Then what on earth possessed you?” Roger joked.

 

John didn’t respond, simply lurching forward to messily press their lips together again. Roger grinned into the kiss, shifting his hands to clutch John’s waist. Letting out a small pleased noise, John attempted to move forward further only to find this was impossible. Instead, and letting their lips part for only a moment to do so, he rose and settled each leg on the outside of Roger’s, promptly plonking himself onto Roger’s lap. Roger grunted at the drunken weight of the other man but quickly recovered, fighting the smile off his face and lazily accepting the warmth of John’s mouth once more.

 

The heated, heady rush that came from now being pressed chest to chest compelled Roger’s heart to stutter. Tenderly he tangled his fingers in John’s hair, revelling in the other’s breathy sigh as he shifted the brunette mass from where it was tickling his face. When he pulled their lips apart languorously, he was almost terrified of the gentle swell of pleasure deep in his ribcage, of the loveliness of John’s little hitched breaths. He knew, immediately, there was nothing he could blame his own adoration on but himself.

 

“What about the vase, Deaks?”

 

Groaning, John cupped one side of Roger’s face with a warm hand. Roger’s stomach flipped. “You ask so many questions, Taylor.”

 

Roger laughed. “Fine, fine. Only one more.”

 

“Go on.”

 

“Will you still kiss me sober?”

 

John looked on at him, blinking and rosy and with lips that Roger knew tasted like more like John than like beer. A strange smile fluttered across his face. “Yeah,” he breathed.

 

And so Roger leant in and kissed him, again and again.

 

...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for readingggg! :)


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